The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Yes,’ said Lizzie; ‘but don’t bother him.’

  Mary Ann ran out, grabbing a small garden fork from under the lean-to as she went, and she joined Mike as he started to turn over the patch of ground at the side of the cottage.

  ‘Where can I do, Da?’

  ‘Along by the wall there,’ he said.

  Mary Ann started to dig up the weeds with vigour. She did not chatter, for when her ma said ‘Don’t bother him’ it meant something. It was only four days ago that he had scratched the writing out and he had been funnily quiet since, not boisterous and laughing and throwing her up to the ceiling and carrying on with her ma in the kitchen.

  Mrs Jones, coming out of her front door dressed for town, said, ‘Hallo there, Mike. At it again?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mike, ‘at it again.’

  ‘You should give yourself a break, man,’ said Mrs Jones, laughing.

  Mary Ann watched her go down the path. Mrs Jones was all right, but she wasn’t like Mrs McBride. She wished Mrs McBride could live next door . . . The futility of this wish made her attack the soil with renewed vigour until she became hot with her efforts. She looked at Mike. He didn’t look hot, he was digging steadily. She wished he would talk. She had been quiet so long, hours and hours.

  The sound of a church clock striking came to her. She didn’t know whether the chimes came from Felling or Hebburn, but much to her surprise it struck only two. She’d just have to say something. She straightened her aching back, made a number of coughing sounds, and was just about to lead Mike into conversation when Michael came tearing across the yard.

  ‘Da . . . can I buy some fireworks? Look, Mr Lord gave it to me.’ He held out his palm, with a shilling on it.

  ‘Mr Lord? Where’s he?’ Mary Ann dropped her fork and darted to Michael.

  ‘At the farm.’

  ‘You’d better ask your ma,’ said Mike. ‘I thought you had some for tonight.’

  ‘Only a few.’ Michael turned to Mary Ann. ‘He gave Lena a shilling an’ all.’

  Mary Ann stared at her brother, then with an exaggerated show of indifference she said, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Do you know what, Da? Mr Lord’s going to build a house here.’

  Mike straightened up. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I heard him and Mr Ratcliffe talking. I wasn’t meaning to listen or anything.’ Michael cast a scathing glance at his sister which dissociated him from any connection with her tactics of getting information. ‘He was talking over in the yard. The architect’s coming on Monday.’

  Mike, pulling a face, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, but he made no comment; but Mary Ann’s comments came tumbling over each other. ‘Build a house here! Oh, goody. He’ll take us to school every morning and I’ll be able to go in the house every day and . . . and he won’t be lonely, and he’ll likely get rid of old Ben, ’cos you couldn’t have him in the new house, and he’ll get a young servant who won’t be so bossy.’

  Michael sniffed disdainfully and went into the house. Within a few minutes Mary Ann watched him come out again and run across the yard and along the narrow lane which led to the village.

  ‘I bet me ma’s let him spend it, and she wouldn’t me.’ On this thought, she too sped into the house, crying, ‘Ma, have you let our Michael buy fireworks?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘And go and tell your da there’s a cup of tea ready.’

  ‘Aw . . . w, you wouldn’t let me. Can I spend me da’s sixpence?’

  Lizzie sighed. ‘You’ve got fireworks for tonight.’

  ‘Only a few, Ma. And now our Michael and Lena’ll have piles.’

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ said Lizzie; ‘there’ll be no peace until you do. But mind, don’t start moaning at Christmas because there’s nothing in your box.’

  Christmas was as a thousand light years away from the fifth of November; in fact it might never come at all. She dashed to her school purse which was hanging on a long strap at the back of the cupboard door, extracted a solitary sixpence and dashed out of the house. She had reached the lane before she remembered the tea, and from there she shouted, ‘There’s some tea for you, Da,’ then ran like the wind in case their Michael and Lena Ratcliffe should buy up the shop.

  Wilson’s stores, standing between the Boar’s Head and a row of grey stone cottages and dead opposite the Methodist chapel, sold everything but beer, coke and coal. Inside the shop, in the small space left for customers, stood Michael and Lena. They had already made their purchases and seemed to have acquired a considerable amount for their money, but, Mary Ann noticed scornfully, they were all little ’uns that wouldn’t make very big bangs, so, just to show them, she decided to spend the entire sixpence at one go.

  ‘I want a One o’Clock Gun, please,’ she said.

  Swiftly Michael turned on her. ‘You’re not to buy One o’Clock Guns, me ma said so.’

  ‘She didn’t so,’ said Mary Ann. And this was true, for Lizzie had not forbidden her to buy such a firework, never dreaming that she would attempt to do so, knowing that she was afraid of big bangs.

  ‘You’ll get into trouble,’ said Michael.

  She hesitated. Yes, that was true, she likely would. She was still hesitating when Lena said, ‘We’ve got two One o’Clock Guns for tonight.’

  That did it. Had Mary Ann suspected that secreted within the firework was a time bomb she would still have bought it.

  ‘Now, do you want it or not?’ asked Mrs Wilson.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Michael walked out of the shop and Lena followed, and when Mary Ann joined them, with a fat red stick of gunpowder in her hand, Michael said, ‘You won’t half catch it if me ma finds you with that, you’ll see.’

  ‘Tell-tale, long tongue!’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘Come on,’ said Lena.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ asked Mary Ann.

  ‘To our hut.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No,’ said Lena.

  Mary Ann watched Michael. It was his turn to hesitate. He half turned to her, but finally succumbed to Lena’s delicate manoeuvre of pulling him forcibly by the arm.

  ‘Spoonies!’ cried Mary Ann after them. ‘Sloppy doppies!’

  She had the satisfaction of seeing Michael bounce round and make for her. She did not, however, wait for his coming, but scampered away in the opposite direction, homewards. Once in the lane, her running turned into a slow walk, for ahead of her was Mr Jones, and he wasn’t walking quite straight but with his usual Saturday-afternoon gait. She let him enter his cottage before she crossed the yard. She was no longer carrying the One o’Clock Gun in her hand, for she knew quite well that she would lose it if her ma saw it. There were some matches kept just inside the scullery door. She proposed to pinch a few, then light the firework and throw it as far away from her as possible.

  The kitchen door was closed, and the sound of voices came from behind it, but so intent was Mary Ann on securing the matches that for once her curiosity was not to the fore. The matches safely tucked under the elastic of her bloomers, and trembling at her daring, she made her way into the lane again and stood silently considering where would be the best place to let it off. The bottom field where the cows were would do. This decision spurred her to climb three gates – she preferred the arduous climb to shutting the gates after her – and to make her way round the edges of two ploughed fields. After all this labour she reached the selected field only to decide against it. The placidity of the cows at their munching stayed her hand, for it brought back their teacher’s warning to all the class not to set fireworks off when there were any animals about.

  Slowly now, and rather dismally, she wandered back to the lane. The only thing for it was to set it off here. It wouldn’t be much fun, but she could see no other safe place.

  She struck a match, but before it got within an inch of the fuse she dropped it. Refusing to admit her fear, she lit another. This she only allowed to singe the end of the fuse before dropping that
, too. She was busy with the fourth attempt when she heard coming from the main road, which was screened from her by the bank and the hedge, the sound of Lena’s voice, and a great idea sprang into her head. It lifted her feet off the ground and sent her flying along the lane. She’d set it off and give them the shock of their lives. Reaching the yard, she darted in a zigzag fashion through Mr Jones’s jumble of bikes and entered his lean-to, which was about three feet from the cottage bedroom window, and there crouched down.

  As once again she fumbled with the matches the sound of deep snores came to her, and glancing to her left she saw between the curtains and through the partly open window the prostrate figure of Mr Jones fast asleep in bed. His mouth was open and he was anything but a pleasant sight. He looked awful, Mary Ann thought.

  The match struck, she applied it with a steadier hand now that she had a definite purpose. When they crossed the yard she’d throw it behind them, not too near, but near enough to make them jump out of their skins, ’cos her ma had said if you must throw squibs never throw them in anybody’s face, it might blind them. Her whole body was shaking with excitement. The fuse was nearly alight, and there was Lena and their Michael just entering the yard. Her heart pumping rapidly, she was holding the sizzling stick out ready to throw, when a terrible thing happened. From out of her own doorway stepped Mr Lord and her da.

  Her mind, usually as nimble as mercury, refused to suggest what she should do now. Her main feeling at the moment was that Mr Lord had been in their house and she hadn’t known – she had missed something. Then her mind swung back to the job in hand and she became petrified . . . if she threw the One o’Clock Gun it would explode right between her da and Mr Lord and Lena and their Michael.

  Mr Lord hated fireworks – he had said so only yesterday. Now her agile brain was working at such a speed that the flame, travelling along the fuse, seemed to become stationary. She must do something with the thing. It had ceased to be a One o’Clock Gun or even a firework, it had become a Thing – an awful Thing. Throw it near Mr Lord she couldn’t. The only alternative was to let it go off here . . . and die. Eeh, but she couldn’t do that either, she was scared of big bangs. Eeh . . . Hail Mary, full of Grace . . . Mary Ann felt she had been holding the firework at least a week instead of a few seconds, and the fuse, racing now with her thoughts, was getting shorter at a speed that both fascinated and terrified her and almost robbed her of the power to fling the Thing anywhere at all. Then, seemingly of its own volition, the firework sprang from her hand and flew through the open window and right under Mr Jones’ bed.

  The sound of the explosion, hemmed in as it was by the cottage walls, had differing effects on those who heard it. It caused Mr Lord to jump as if the firework had been tied to his coat-tails, and Mike to start and gaze in perplexity towards his neighbour’s door. It acted on both Michael and Lena in the same way. It sprang open their eyes and mouths to their widest, for instantly they both knew what had caused the bang and who had caused it, and their astonishment made them look senseless. But the effect on Mary Ann was to lift her off her feet and precipitate her into the middle of the spare parts, where she lay covering her head with her hands to stop the cottage from falling on her.

  What effect her sudden appearance had on the four people in the yard was lost in that of a greater surprise, for following on an unearthly wail the cottage door was pulled open and there raced into the yard the apparition of Mr Jones.

  Clad only in his shirt and linings, and making almost animal sounds, Mr Jones had the appearance of a madman intent on winning a marathon, and it took all Mike’s strength, which was considerable, to bring the little man to a halt and to hold him.

  ‘Steady, man, steady!’ cried Mike.

  Mr Jones, panting as if at the end of a race, and his face working in much the same way as that of a straining and spent runner, gasped, ‘In the n . . . name of G . . . God, Mike . . . ’

  ‘Steady, man!’ said Mike again.

  ‘B-but, Mike . . . ’

  Mary Ann rose from her knees with all eyes upon her, including Lizzie’s. Mr Jones, still jangling, was holding on to Mike as he stared at the perpetrator of the crime. No-one spoke as she moved forward. Mr Lord’s face was very red and her da’s unusually white. That was temper, Mary Ann knew. Michael and Lena looked as if they had been struck dead.

  Lizzie’s voice was low as she said, ‘Get inside.’

  Mary Ann got inside. She was so frightened she thought she was going to vomit. She sat on the kitchen chair with her legs tightly crossed and waited. After a while Lena came to the open door and looked at her as if she were some strange specimen in a cage, then she walked away again without saying a word.

  May Ann sat for a long while. She heard voices and movement in the cottage next door. Then there was quiet for a moment before they all came back into the kitchen: her ma and da, their Michael and Mr Lord. And when she looked at her da she wanted to leave the room, so affected was she by the anger she saw in his face.

  Then before her da could say a word Mr Lord suddenly sat down, his red face turned to purple as if he, too, were on the verge of exploding. And then he did, but not with the sudden impact of the firework. First the muscles of his face worked, then his body shook and he groaned and put his hand to his side, then he strained back in his chair and said, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! . . . The funniest sight . . . the funniest sight.’ As the tears began to rain down his cheeks the tension in the room slackened somewhat. Mary Ann, with one eye on Mike, gave the semblance of a watery smile; Lizzie and Michael seemed to breathe more freely; only Mike remained the same. He was apparently unaffected by Mr Lord’s laughter, and glared at Mary Ann.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ he demanded.

  ‘I didn’t mean to, Da.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Mary Ann made no answer, and Mike’s voice, rising, demanded again, ‘Why?’

  Trembling now, Mary Ann said, ‘’Cos I was frightened of it going off near me, and if I’d thrown it at Michael and Lena it would have frightened—’ Her eyes slid to where Mr Lord sat dabbing at his eyes.

  ‘Why did you throw it at all? I’ve warned you about big crackers, haven’t I?’

  Mary Ann didn’t stress the fine point here that it was Michael he had warned, but with her eyes stretched wide she continued to stare at him. Even when Mr Lord said, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. He wanted stirring up anyway, that fellow,’ she still continued to gaze at her da.

  ‘It might have turned the man’s mind.’ Mike spoke down to the top of Mr Lord’s head and there was not the slightest deference in his voice.

  And now Mary Ann looked a little fearfully from Mike to Mr Lord, but Mr Lord still seemed amused and he said, ‘What, a bang like that, and the fellow been through the war?’

  ‘That’s a different thing,’ said Mike, ‘you’re expecting bangs then.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been in bed on a Saturday afternoon. And he was likely half drunk,’ said Mr Lord, tersely.

  Was it her imagination or was there a sort of warning in Mr Lord’s voice? But it was no imagination that her da stiffened, and the stiffness came over in his tone: ‘It was the man’s own time.’

  ‘Yes, yes, his own time.’ Mr Lord stood up abruptly, and Lizzie, looking fearfully from one to the other, asked: ‘Won’t you stay and have a cup of tea, sir?’

  ‘No, no, thank you,’ he said, and much to her amazement he smiled kindly at her. ‘I’ve had all the beverage I want for one afternoon.’ His hand went out and he rumpled Mary Ann’s hair, and Mike, seeming to become more hostile and addressing Mary Ann pointedly, said: ‘You’re not getting off with this this time, you’re in for a good smacked backside, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind.’ The old man swung round on Mike. ‘You’re treating the thing too seriously.’

  ‘I know me own business, sir, if you don’t mind.’

  Now they were facing each other, hostility in their eyes.

  Lizzie’s hand went t
o her throat. She prayed that Mike might keep his temper. Oh, were things never to run smoothly? She knew that Mike’s nerves were on edge – the desire for a drink had been in him for days. He had been coping, and had himself well in hand, until last Tuesday and the incident of the writing on the wall. Things like that affected him. ‘I might as well just be at it again,’ he had said. ‘They’re waiting for me to start . . . I can feel it.’ And she had cried back at him, ‘Nonsense! The doings of a girl like Sarah Flannagan. And you know her mother, she hasn’t a good word for God.’ And on top of all this Mr Jones had to come in today when he was well under way and jabber and jabber. It was all telling on Mike. If only Mr Lord would go and she could talk to him.

  Mr Lord turned from Mike and moved to the door, and there he turned again and said, ‘Don’t thrash her.’ And although he said it quietly, it was an order.

  Now anger rose in Lizzie against her daughter. Mike had been made to appear as if thrashing Mary Ann was a pastime of his, when the truth was he had never raised a hand to her in his life . . . he had spoiled her. He may, for a time, have made her own life a hell, but never intentionally Mary Ann’s. Even before Mr Lord was out of earshot, she cried to Mary Ann, ‘Get up those stairs and into bed.’

  Without a word, and at the double, Mary Ann went.

  ‘And you too!’ cried Lizzie to Michael.

  ‘But, Ma, I’ve done nothing . . . and I’ll not go up with her.’

  ‘Then go on out.’

  Michael went out, his face expressing the injustice of the dismissal.

  Lizzie looked to where Mike was standing staring into the fire, his hands thrust into his pockets, and said softly, ‘Take no heed.’

  He swung round on her. ‘Take no heed! He acts as if he owns me, body and soul. And not only me . . . he gave me the job because of her, and he’s taken her.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Lizzie moved to him, and placing her hands beneath his loose cardigan she gripped his braces and pulled him to her. ‘Nobody can take her from you.’